The Flume of the Agathos Daimon
by Lution
Summary: The wizarding world is still reeling from the shock of Voldemort's death. Suspicion and mistrust are gradually being replaced with acceptance and optimism, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione start looking towards the future. But not everyone is celebrating you-know-who's demise, and when a new deadly threat begins to emerge, it has sinister ties to the past.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter, & The Flume of The Agathos Daimon**

**By Annette Siketa**

Chapter 1 - The Heir Apparent

The locals still called it Black Death Lane, even though every map and guide of the area, stated that it was Black Heath Lane. Years earlier, the H had been replaced with a D, because of all the strange sightings near the manor house in the Lane, sightings that included, 'shadowy figures wearing cloaks'. In addition, many residents had reported feeling a 'sinister chill' whenever they'd walked past the manor.

At the local pub, The Cock & Wheel, a new sighting was always cause for much speculation, for nobody had ever seen who lived in the manor. Some claimed it was the home of a dishonoured Duke, though there was no proof of this, while others said it was home to an eccentric millionaire. The latter had more plausibility, for although the manor was surrounded by a ten foot high stone wall, a pure white peacock had been seen perched on top. None of this gossip however, had yet reached the ears of a new local resident, Mrs Elspeth Twickenham, a recently retired headmistress, whose garden and kitchen window, though separated by several hedges and a small scrubby field, directly overlooked the manor in the lane.

Dusk was falling when Mrs Twickenham stood in her kitchen and opened a tin of cat food. She was a stout, brusque, no nonsense woman, who wore 'tweedy' skirts and sensible shoes. "Brutus! Brutus! Tea time," she called to her cat, and tipped the tuna chunks into a bowl, which made a soft squishing noise as they fell out of the can.

The cat did not appear. This was highly unusual, for Brutus, a tortoise shell moggy of dubious parentage, loved his food, as his fat hairy belly could attest.

"Brutus!" Mrs Twickenham peered through the window into the garden. The neat flower beds and perfectly manicured lawn, were resplendent in the gathering twilight, and although she scanned every inch meticulously, there was still no sign of the cat. Her gaze wandered past the hedge at the bottom of her garden, the scrubby field that lay beyond, the low bramble thicket that separated the field from the lane, and came to rest on the heavily fortified manor.

The manor was easily the grandest house in the area. However, because of the surrounding high stone wall, only the chimneys and roof were visible. Moreover, the only access to the manor, or so it seemed, was via a set of intricately patterned wrought iron gates, which were always closed and locked.

Her gaze still fixed on the manor, Mrs Twickenham shuddered. "Don't be silly," she muttered, "it's just a house," and donning a pair of walking shoes, went in search of the cat.

She slipped through a gap in the hedge and marched across the field. She had just reached the bramble thicket, when two movements caught her attention. The first was a quick glimpse of tortoise shell. Brutus was hiding in the long reedy grass. The second movement, was that a small hooded figure wearing a long green cloak, was striding purposefully towards the manor.

Several things happened in quick succession. Brutus suddenly darted across the lane. The figure jumped as though startled, and in one swift movement, reached beneath the cloak and produced a long thin stick. There was a blinding flash of bright green light, and the cat moved no more. The figure waved the stick a second time and another cat appeared. This animal however, bore absolutely no resemblance to the first. Pearly white and almost translucent, the long-haired cat made no sound as it ran down the lane to the manor. Then, as though the metal was nothing more than smoke, it passed straight through the gates. Mrs Twickenham screamed. There was a second flash of bright green light, and like her cat, she moved no more.

The figure kicked the dead cat aside and continued along the lane. Upon reaching the gates, it made no attempt to make itself known, but rather, like the silver cat, the figure simply passed straight through.

The figure was so slight, that its footsteps barely registered. Indeed, it seemed to be gliding up the long gravel driveway, which was lined with a trimmed ewe hedge. There was a sudden rustling noise over to the right, and the figure stopped dead. It stood quite still for a moment, listening, turning its head from side-to-side with quick jerky movements. Then, unlike a few moment's earlier, it slowly reached beneath the cloak and produced the wand again.

"_Lumos_," it whispered. The tip of the wand instantly ignited, illuminating a pair of small pink eyes. The albino peacock ruffled its feathers and casually strutted away.

The figure seemed to relax as it hurried towards the house. Somewhere nearby, a fountain tinkled in the darkness. Light poured from the diamond-paned downstairs windows, reflecting off the serpent-shaped knocker attached to the door. As the figure raised the knocker and then let it fall, under the hood, there was a smile of supreme satisfaction on her squat, almost reptilian, face.

But nobody was smiling inside the manor. The roaring fire in the opulent drawing room, did nothing to lighten the atmosphere of gloom. It was as if a very close friend had suddenly died, leaving those behind stunned and confused. Of the three occupants, only Narcissa Malfoy sat unnaturally still. Her face was so pale, that she looked near to death herself. But it was not bereavement that was causing her to tremble, it was fear.

"Oh, Lucius, what are we going to do? The Dark Lord has gone and…oh, I don't like this, she'll be here in less than a minute." Her voice became slightly hysterical as she added, "Perhaps it would be safer if we apparated out of here."

"Get a grip, Narcissa," said Lucius Malfoy tersely, his grey eyes hard and cold. "The Dark Lord has been dead over a week, and as yet, nobody has pointed a finger at us."

"Personally," said a drawling voice from the depths of a wing-back chair, "I can't wait to hear what she has to say." Draco Malfoy was the image of his father – a pale pointed face under white-blonde hair. Unlike his parents however, who were both looking anxious and a little scared, he did not appear the least concerned. "Perhaps she's come up with a fool proof plan to finally get rid of Potter. I don't know about you, but I could do with a laugh."

"But Draco," said Narcissa, fretfully wringing her hands, "what if she's coming to arrest us?"

"Don't be silly, mother. If the Ministry had concrete proof of our allegiance to the Dark Lord, they'd have whisked us off to Azkaban the moment he fell. No, they're after something else."

"Or she is," said Lucius Malfoy in a slow, thoughtful voice. There was a momentary pause, in which all three Malfoys exchanged significant looks. Clearly the idea that their pending visitor was not acting in an official capacity, had not occurred to any of them. "I don't particularly like her methods," he went on, "even if her plan to capture and discredit Potter several years ago, only failed by a bats whisker. I have to admit, albeit reluctantly, that sending Dementors to Potter's home, was quite ingenious. Pity he squirmed his way out of it, and the subsequent hearing."

"Potter seems cursed with good luck," said Draco bitterly. "If that interfering half-breed, Remus Lupin, hadn't taught him how to cast a Patronus, Potter wouldn't have escaped on either occasion. He's nothing but a pretentious show-off."

Lucius Malfoy rounded on his son, his voice curt and reproachful. "And you think your tomfoolery during that quidditch match was any less pathetic? What were you, Crabbe, and Goyle, thinking of? The only thing dressing up as a Dementor achieved, was to expose your stupidity. You are nearly 18 years of age, it's about time you grew up. You might have reached your majority, but you certainly don't act like it. Right now, our main concern, our only concern, is self-preservation." Lucius waved a hand around the room. "Do you want to lose all this? Do you want to live in a two room shack at the back of The Three Broomsticks? No? Then you'd better listen to me. We have more important things to worry about than petty revenge on Harry Potter."

Draco jumped to his feet, his hands balled into white knuckled fists. "Petty revenge? Vincent Crabbe is dead because of Harry Potter, as are many of our other friends." He paused, took a deep breath, and in a rare display of affection, looked at his father and softened his voice. "And I will never forgive him for sending you to Azkaban." Narcissa let out an anguished cry and buried her face in her hands. Draco drew himself up to full height and said fiercely, "Believe me, father, if I ever get the chance, I will kill Harry Potter with my bare hands."

"You will do nothing of the sort!" Lucius's angry voice bounced off the walls. He strode across the room and none too gently, shook his son by the shoulders. "Don't you understand? It's that kind of childish mentality that will put us in Azkaban. We got away with it last time, but if we are to survive uncertainty and suspicion, then we must proceed cautiously, and the sudden demise of Harry Potter is not likely to go unnoticed. He can wait, we cannot."

There was a tap on the door. A tall, thickset man, entered the room and announced, "She's here."

"Show her in, Yaxley." The moment the door was closed, Lucius quickly whispered, "Let her do all the talking. I will answer for us unless she asks you a question directly. In that case, try to avoid any mention of the Dark Lord…" he shot a warning look at Draco, "…or Harry Potter."

The door opened again, and the small cloaked figure entered the room. Then, as the hood was slowly pulled back, the toad-like features of Dolores Umbridge, came into view. Broad faced with a wide slack mouth, her eyes were slightly protuberant, and sitting on top of her short grey hair, was a lurid pink Alice band. It matched the fluffy pink cardigan she was wearing under her cloak.

"Good evening Lucius," she said in her girlish high-pitched voice. "I trust you received my Patronus."

"Obviously," he replied tonelessly. "You would not have been permitted through the gate otherwise."

"Now, now, Lucius," she said cajolingly, "there is no need for resentment. I assure you, my visit is quite honourable." She turned to face Narcissa Malfoy, who was now standing behind her son, her long pale fingers gripping his shoulders. "Narcissa, my dear, I don't think we've met before. I am Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic." She held out a hand. Her short fat fingers were bedecked in ugly rings. Narcissa barely touched the offered hand, as though afraid she might receive an electric shock. Umbridge seemed quite unaffected as she went on, "And Draco. What a pleasure to see you again. When I was High Inquisitor and Headmistress of Hogwarts, you were my most…" she paused and giggled, "…my most loyal servant."

Narcissa let out a strangled gasp, but the sound of the door being opened, drowned her cry. Yaxley entered carrying a tray of coffee. He placed it on the long, highly polished dining table, but instead of leaving the room, he took up a position beside the door, arms crossed and wand at the ready.

Umbridge gave one of her nauseating coughs. "Hem, hem. Lucius, while I appreciate your hospitality, and dare I say it, cautiousness, what I have to say is highly confidential."

There was a tense pause in which Lucius seemed to procrastinate. He gave a single nod of his head and Yaxley exited the room. "What can I do for you, Dolores?" asked Lucius, as Narcissa tried to pour the coffee. Her hands were now trembling so badly, that Draco did it instead.

Umbridge sipped her cup of coffee, and then quietly set it down on the saucer. "Well," she began, curving her mouth into a sickly smile, "after the recent unfortunate events, I wanted to check that our leading family, is not being persecuted by what I will term, unwelcome forces, not to mention…" she gave a nasty little laugh, "dangerous and unnatural half-breeds."

"In that event," said Lucius, "I have every right to defend my family."

"Of course you do," said Umbridge in a honeyed tone. "As one of our greatest pure-blood families, you should take every opportunity to highlight your nobility." She slowly raised the cup to her lips, and looking directly at Lucius, added in a meaningful voice, "And your wizarding superiority."

"Under normal circumstances, I would agree with you, but it seems wizarding superiority doesn't count for much these days. There was a time when only pure-bloods could hold positions of authority. Now however, it seems anyone can become Minister for Magic. Just look at that dolt, Shacklebolt."

Umbridge lowered her cup. "Or headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Have they appointed someone?" asked Draco. "I hope it's not that hag, McGonagall, or worse still, that traitorous, Slughorn. During the battle, he was more concerned with his stupid green pyjamas than defending the honour of Slythering."

"Well, actually," said Umbridge, "I believe Minister Shacklebolt, who as we know, is only acting in a temporary capacity, has been offered the post."

"No!" Draco stood up so suddenly, that his chair toppled over. "Kingsley Shacklebolt - headmaster of Hogwarts? Never! Father, you have to stop it. Talk to the governors, you still have influence, they'll listen to you," but Lucius was already shaking his head.

"Believe me, Draco, I wish I could. If…" Lucius broke off abruptly. He had almost said that if Lord Voldemort was still alive, there would be no problem in cancelling the appointment. "If the governors have already made their decision, there's nothing I can do about it."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Umbridge quietly, and there was something in her voice that caused all three Malfoys to react. Narcissa, who had been staring sightlessly into her cup, looked up sharply and frowned. Draco, having righted his chair, leaned forward with his arms on the table, his pale grey eyes glittering in anticipation. Lucius however, did the opposite. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, his own eyes shrewd and alert.

"Explain yourself, Dolores."

"It comes back to what we were discussing earlier. I am quite sure that not everyone is pleased with the outcome of recent events. In fact, I know they're not. Those who are disillusioned and aimless, are looking for someone to guide them, someone sympathetic to their cause, to provide stability and inspiration. You must admit, the Dark Lord was hardly a natural leader, more like, a hideous freak whose methods were sloppy and crude."

There was five seconds of ringing silence, then, Draco jumped to his feet and shouted, "You wouldn't dare say that if he was still alive!"

"Sit down!" bellowed Lucius, giving his son a hard, warning look.

Umbridge smiled at Draco indulgently, her wide toad-like mouth seeming to split her face. "I concede that his knowledge of the Dark Arts was quite extraordinary, but he was too obsessed with Harry Potter to use it wisely. In short, Voldemort was too clever for his own good. I, on the other hand, take a more methodical approach." She paused to draw in a long deep breath, and when she resumed, her tone was passionate and insistent. "If the superiority of pure-blood families is to be maintained, then the insidious rise of mudbloods and half-breeds to positions of respectability, must be stamped out. Before it was disbanded, the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, was extremely effective in doing this. Now however, instead of weeding out undesirables, the Ministry seeks to embrace them. They have even gone so far as to offer rehabilitation to Voldemort's former followers. This must not be allowed to happen. If there is nobody to protect the integrity of our noble families, then make no mistake, their blood will be irrevocably tainted."

Lucius stared at her in disbelief. Whether knowingly or not, though how she knew was impossible to say, she had just echoed Lord Voldemort's own words some twelve months earlier. "_Many of our family trees become a little diseased over time…We shall cut away the canker that infects us, until only those of the true blood remain._"

"Are you claiming," said Lucius, "that you're more powerful than the Dark Lord?"

"No, not more powerful, just more intelligent. To achieve a goal, careful research and precise planning are more effective than rash behaviour."

"He did plan," said Draco loudly, his face flushing with angry colour. "The Dark Lord was a genius. He always thought carefully about what he was doing, it was the others who let him down."

"A genius?" repeated Umbridge in a horrible mocking tone, all pretence of amiability vanishing. There was a triumphant glint in her eye as she continued, "It didn't get him very far, did it? All those years planning his so-called return, and for what? Just so he could wreak havoc on one insignificant boy. And even on those occasions when he did have Potter at his mercy, instead of just killing him, Voldemort could not resist flaunting his own cleverness. So much so, that Potter was able to take advantage and escape every time. No, Draco, Voldemort's supporters might have been fooled by his aggrandisement, but I was not. Any wizard can cast an unforgivable curse, its effectiveness, is simply a matter of practise."

"If we can return to the point," said Lucius. "You are obviously here for another reason, Dolores, other than checking on our health. What is it?"

"You have access to…how shall I put it…certain irregular resources. It would be in all our interests if you consulted them as quickly as possible."

Lucius stroked his pointed chin. He seemed to be lost in thought. Why did Umbridge want to contact Death Eaters? Was she setting some kind of Ministerial trap? It would be a very cold day before a mediocre witch, full of her own self-importance, bested him. Still, prudence dictated that he proceed judiciously.

"Good in theory, Dolores, but you're forgetting one major point. The 'certain resources' you speak of, well half of them are in Azkaban, and the other half are scattered far and wide. I have no method of contacting them."

Umbridge looked pointedly at his hand, the one stroking the chin, the one where the 'dark mark' was burned into the flesh. "Oh, I'm sure you can devise a method," she said meaningfully. "When it comes to the dregs of wizarding society, I bow to your expertise."

This was too much for Narcissa. She made to rise, but Lucius quelled her with a look. "Dolores, insulting me, and in my own home, will not enlist my co-operation."

"Enlist your co-operation?" said Umbridge, girlishly fluttering her eyelashes. "Obviously, I have not made my meaning clear. I have the brains and you have the muscle, and together, we will restore the prestige of pure-blood families. The entire future of the wizarding world is at stake. Of course, if you prefer to live under the rule of mudbloods and half breeds, then I shall say no more."

Narcissa could not remain silent any longer. "If you're suggesting that Lucius continue the Dark Lord's work, then I can tell you now that we refuse. My god, Dolores, we barely escaped with our lives. Do you really think we'd willingly do it again?"

Umbridge slowly turned her head, her gaze hard and unyielding. "Narcissa, let me ask you a simple question. I have outlined the Ministry's new fraternal policy. Do you agree with it?"

Narcissa immediately recognised the danger and vigorously shook her head. "No, of course not." She tried to smile. "You must forgive me, Dolores. I'm still in shock after the battle at Hogwarts. Draco was almost burnt to death by Fiendfyre."

"Of course dear," said Umbridge silkily. "From what I understand, Draco fought most bravely. In fact, he's probably eligible for the Order of Merlin, first class."

Lucius snorted derisively. "What? Give Draco an award for trying to kill Harry Potter? Hardly."

"Well," said Umbridge slowly, "that rather depends on who the new Minister for Magic, is." She paused to let the word 'new', sink in. All three Malfoys exchanged puzzled looks.

"Go on," said Lucius, now sitting forward in his chair.

"Earlier today, in my capacity as Senior Undersecretary, I attended a meeting of the entire Wizengamot. At this meeting, amongst other ludicrous measures, it was decided that a public election will be held, to appoint a new Minister for Magic."

"Ahh," said Lucius comprehendingly. "So, that's what all this is about. You want the job and you need my help to get it."

Umbridge laughed so hard, that her hair band almost fell off. "Me? Minister for Magic? Oh, no, Lucius, that is your job." Narcissa gasped then clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Lucius and Draco both looked stunned, as though they'd just received a blow on the head.

Lucius was the first to recover. "My job?"

Umbridge smiled in satisfaction. "The Malfoy reputation is not so damaged as to be irreparable. When Shacklebolt resigns, the position will become vacant. All you will need to do, is nominate for the post. I will do the rest."

Draco tilted his head to the side and looked at Umbridge curiously. "Surely there will be other candidates."

"Of course there will, but so long as your father follows my instructions, I can guarantee that before too long, he will be the Minister for Magic. My carefully crafted public campaign of impeccable respectability, along with other key strategies, will not fail to get him elected."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Does this mean we have to befriend the likes of the Weasleys'? How nauseating. And what of the mudblood, Granger, and Potter?"

Umbridge looked at him sharply, and for the second time that evening, Draco Malfoy received a dressing down. "I had hoped recent events had given you wisdom, but I see maturity has not fully blossomed yet. Do you really think I would abandon the plan, just because it offends your sensibilities?" She banged a podgy fist on the table. "Wake up, Draco! The wizarding world is heading in the wrong direction, and unless we steer its course, then every pure-blood family will be lost. As for Potter, I have my own plans for him." She paused for a moment and smacked her lips, as though savouring his demise. Then, seeing Draco's look of disappointment, her mouth split into a sinister smile. "I know you want Harry Potter as much as I do, but as I am more valuable and important than you, my revenge will take precedence. But don't be discouraged, I also have plans for you, and if Weasley or Miss Know-it-all Granger happen to get in the way, then when the time is right, and only with my permission, you may dispose of them."

"No!" Narcissa Malfoy, her face stricken with terror, jumped to her feet. "I will not allow you to turn my son into a murderer. Besides, the Weasleys are a pure blood family. Surely killing one of them would defeat the purpose?"

Umbridge gave her a penetrating look, and then seemed to relent. "Narcissa," she patiently began, "no good cause is without sacrifice. In the immortal words of my esteemed ancestor, Salazar Slythering, 'I came, I saw, I conquered'."

"That was Julius Caesar," said Lucius, "not Slythering."

"I beg your pardon?"

"According to muggle history, it was Julius Caesar who coined the phrase."

"Muggle history?" Umbridge spat out the words as though they were something disgusting.

Lucius Malfoy sighed. "Dolores, whether you like it or not, the muggle world does exist. I'm no fan of it either, and although I hate to admit it, from a philanthropic standpoint, there have been some interesting muggles."

Umbridge raised a questioning eyebrow. "Really? I didn't know you were an expert on muggle relations."

"Far from it. It's just that in my line of work, certain names keep cropping up. It's quite miraculous how they evolved without the use of magic."

"And what was so special about this Caesar fellow?"

Lucius Malfoy inwardly smiled. The supposed all-knowing Dolores Umbridge, was showing her ignorance. "Well, if you discount the fact that he ruled half the known world with an iron fist, nothing much. He, along with a plethora of warlords, dictators, and kings, were interested in only one thing – conquest."

Umbridge looked scandalise, her slack mouth tightening in disgust. "Are you seriously saying that a muggle once ruled half the world? Utter nonsense."

"Oh, he didn't do it alone," said Lucius in an off-hand manner, still enjoying his superiority over Umbridge. "He did have a little magical help, a man so utterly ruthless, so brilliant a strategist, that he makes Lord Voldemort look like a mountain troll."

Umbridge's chair creaked in protest as she suddenly leaned forward. "Who?" she demanded, her bulging eyes alive with interest.

"Pykel Hardhardt."

Narcissa and Draco exchanged puzzled looks. Umbridge however, gazed at the ceiling, her grotesque eyes rolling from side to side. "Pykel Hardhardt. Yes, I believe the name rings a distant bell." It could not have been clearer that the name meant nothing to her. "You say he was a brilliant strategist?"

Lucius Malfoy smiled. Plans for when he was Minister for Magic, were already formulating in his mind, and they did not include Dolores Umbridge. "None better. Without his help, a simple-minded muggle like Caesar, could not have been successful." He sat back and crossed his arms. He had saved the best till last. "Did you never wonder as to the origins of…Salazar Slythering?"

Umbridge's already bulging eyes, seemed to inflate even more. "I think this warrants further investigation," she said quickly, her chest heaving with excitement. "Narcissa, my dear, Lucius and I have much to discuss, so you and Draco may leave."

For the first time since Lord Voldemort's death, Narcissa Malfoy's pale ghostly features, vanished. Humiliated at being dismissed from her own drawing room, her face was flushed as she propelled Draco towards the door. Umbridge paid not the slightest heed.

"Narcissa, my dear, as you no longer have a house-elf, would you bring us some sandwiches in about an hour."

Narcissa gave a single nod of her head. Her mouth was clenched so tightly, that she might have been suffering from the langlocker curse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry Potter, & The Flume of The Agathos Daimon**

**By Annette Siketa**

Chapter 2 - Invitations & Plaudits

Harry had no memory of travelling to The Burrow. He remembered the duel with Lord Voldemort, he remembered the look of blank shock as Voldemort fell dead, he remembered the agony and ecstasy of those who had survived, and those who had died. He remembered being in Dumbledore's office, and using the elder wand to repair the broken halves of his phoenix wand, but after that, apart from some vague, shadowy images, everything else on that momentous day, was a blank.

The next thing he knew, he had woken up in Ron's vibrant orange bedroom, the official colour of Ron's favourite quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, and there, sitting on the bed, a bowl of soup in her hands, was Ginny.

"You've been in a sort of fever," she had explained, spoon feeding him soup. "Mum was really worried, she was going to send an owl to St. Mungo's, but dad said all you needed was plenty of rest and lots of food."

"But how did I get here?"

"Kingsley reinstated the entire Floo Network. We used the fireplace in McGonagall's office to get you here. Dad and I stayed behind to collect our belongings. Everyone was going nuts. Somebody broke into Filch's office and stole a heap of confiscated stuff. There were Fanged Frisbees and fireworks flying everywhere. Somebody told me that the Post Office in Hogsmead ran out of owls. Now, open wide, here comes the Hogwarts express."

Mr Weasley's diagnosis had proved correct, and now, five days later, having devoured vast amounts of Mrs Weasley's delicious cooking, as Harry sat in the kitchen playing chess with Ron, he was feeling much better.

Mrs Weasley however, looked far from happy. She kept glancing at the clock on the wall, her expression anxious and grim. Rather than numerals, the clock had short descriptions around the dial, and instead of two hands, there were eight. The hands inscribed with the names Bill, Percy, and Arthur, were pointing to 'work', while the hands inscribed with Molly, George, Ron, and Ginny, were pointing to 'home'. The last hand, that of Charlie, was pointing to 'out of the country'. The hand that had once bore Fred's name, had disappeared at the moment of his death.

"Mum," said Ron as he studiously eyed Harry's white bishop, "stop worrying. Dad will be home soon."

"He's right, Mrs Weasley," said Hermione. As usual, she had her nose buried in a book. "Voldemort has gone. There is no need to worry anymore."

"Yes, I know, but even so." She tried to interest herself in a basket of laundry, but Harry could tell her heart wasn't in it. He noticed Charlie's out of sync hand, and tried to distract her.

"Mrs Weasley, where's Charlie?"

"He's in the Fijian Islands. A remote tribe is having a problem with a dragon."

"It's probably sunbathing on the beach and scaring away the tourists," said Ron under his breath.

Mrs Weasley checked her wrist watch – a real clock this time. "Oh, where's Arthur? He promised to be home by five o'clock and it's already gone ten past."

"Mum," said Ron through gritted teeth, irritated by her constant clock watching, "you heard what dad said. The Ministry is a mess, and everyone is having to work long hours."

"I know I shouldn't be frightened anymore but…oh!" Mrs Weasley gave a little shriek as Mr Weasley's clock hand suddenly jumped to 'travelling', and then to 'home'. Seconds later, the back door opened and he entered the kitchen. He looked exhausted. Mrs Weasley threw her arms around his neck. "Arthur, where have you been? I've been so worried."

"Sorry I'm late," he said wearily, patting Mrs Weasley on the back. He sat down heavily next to Harry. "You would not believe the chaos at the ministry."

"Told you," said Ron, as his black knight picked up Harry's bishop and walked off the board with him. Unlike muggle chess, wizarding pieces actually moved, and what's more, could become quite violent at times, especially in a tight game.

Mrs Weasley waved her wand over a pot of minestrone soup on the stove, which instantly began to simmer. "Arthur, where's Percy?" she asked, now sounding considerably calmer. "If he doesn't hurry up, he'll be late for dinner."

"Still at the ministry. Everyone is running around like confunded doxies. I could hardly get into the lift for all the department memos. Right now, I wouldn't trade places with Kingsley for all the gold in Gringotts." His exhaustion seemingly forgotten, Mr Weasley focused on the game. "Harry, if you move your bishop, you can put Ron's queen in check."

"Oi! Whose side are you on?" said Ron indignantly, though he quickly moved his queen.

"Did I hear someone mention my name?" said a tall black wizard from the doorway.

"Kingsley!" With one exception, everyone smiled as he entered the kitchen. Mr Weasley sprang to his feet, drew his wand, and pointed it at Kingsley's chest.

"What was the type of earring you were wearing when you first met Harry?"

"Arthur!" Mrs Weasley's eyes were wide with shock. "Kingsley is the Minister for Magic. You can't threaten him with a wand!"

"You can't be too careful either," said Mr Weasley, his wand still pointed in a threatening manner.

"Quite right, Arthur, though I think it is quite safe to dispense with security questions now." When Mr Weasley did not lower his wand, Kingsley went on, "I believe it was a gold hoop." He absently rubbed the now empty lobe. As the focus of the ministry was to restore its respectability, many officials, including Kingsley, had felt compelled to 'dress down'.

Seemingly satisfied, Mr Weasley put his wand away. Kingsley strode across the kitchen, tossed his cloak over a chair, and then held out a hand to Harry. "Glad to see you up and about. How ya feeling?"

Harry grinned. He could not resist saying, "Are you asking me as the Minister for Magic, or plain old Kingsley Shacklebolt?

"Potter, don't be rude!" Professor McGonagall was standing in the doorway, her long black travelling cloak slightly askew. "Irrespective of your previous associations, he is still the temporary Minister for Magic, and is therefore entitled to every respect." She did not see Kingsley's look of bemusement as she went across to Mrs Weasley. "Molly, my dear, in all the confusion, I did not get chance to express my condolences. Fred was a most delightful boy. Sometimes, I regretted having to punish him and George, for more often than not, their antics handed people a laugh when it was needed the most, especially two years ago when that loathsome woman was in charge." She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Even now, I cannot speak her name without utter revulsion. But, the less said about her the better. How are you coping?"

"Fine, thank you, Minerva," said Mrs Weasley in an unconvincing tone.

Harry was just considering whether to add to the conversation, when he saw Kingsley give Professor McGonagall, a barely perceptible nod of his head. She cleared her throat and said a little stiffly, "Molly, Arthur, Fred died for a cause he truly believed in, and to this end, the Ministry, in conjunction with Hogwarts, has decided to establish an annual award. It is to honour those who persevere in the face of adversity. With your permission, we would like to call it, The Fred Weasley Award."

Mrs Weasley burst into tears, her heart-breaking sobs filling the kitchen. Harry had never heard anyone cry so hard. Ron buried his face in his hands and silently began to weep. Hermione, her eyes over flowing, patted his shoulder.

Mr Weasley waved his wand and produced a large pink handkerchief. "There, there, Molly," he said as he wiped her eyes. "I feel his loss too, but as Minerva just said, Fred died fighting bravely, and we should take comfort from that."

"Oh, it's not just Fred," said Mrs Weasley, blowing her nose, "it's George as well. Ever since we returned from Hogwarts, he won't speak to anyone. All he does is lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling."

"Molly, it will take time for wounds to heal, and for the wizarding world to accept that it is safe again. The dead are gone, and we must concentrate on the living." He squeezed her shoulders and then addressed Kingsley. "Thank you for honouring our son, Minister. We are proud and grateful." In spite of Mr Weasley's bravado, his expression was pained and his eyes bloodshot. It could not have been clearer that he too, was on the verge of tears.

"Arthur, we have been through too much together to stand on ceremony, and that applies to all of you. Kingsley will do just fine." He smiled at Professor McGonagall. "I appreciate your earlier statement, Minerva, but it is precisely our former associations, that gives everyone here the right to address me informally."

There was a short pause, then Mrs Weasley said rather loudly, "Right, time for dinner. Minerva, Kingsley, you will join us of course," and without waiting for a response, she waved her wand in the direction of the bowls and plates. They rose into the air, glided across the room, and landed with a slight 'clink' on the table. Professor McGonagall removed her cloak, picked up Kingsley's, which had slipped off the chair onto the floor, hung them on a peg by the back door, and then went to the cutlery drawer. She could have done it all by magic, but as she distributed the knives and forks and set the table, Harry knew that she just wanted to help.

The kitchen was rather cramped, not only because of the seven people in it, but because of the large amount of washing Mrs Weasley had done earlier. Harry decided to use it as an excuse, for there was something he wanted to know, and to have mentioned it in front of Mrs Weasley, would only have upset her again.

Ignoring Ron's startled expression of, 'what are you giving it to me for?', Harry thrust a pile of laundry into his hands, grabbed a pile for himself, and jerked his head in the direction of the ceiling. Ron understood immediately.

"Um…just taking this lot upstairs, mum," he said as they marched out of the kitchen.

"Ron," said Hermione in surprise, "I do believe you're becoming domesticated."

Ron ignored her, and as he stood at his bedroom door, he balanced the laundry with one hand, and fished in a pocket with the other. "Hang on…let me…Ha!" There was a tiny 'click', and four balls of light shot into the bedroom. They hung in the corners like miniature suns, flooding the room with light. "It's the deluminator. I'd forgotten about it until the other day. It still had the lights in it from the tent. You know, the ones we used in Malfoy's cellar."

"Don't remind me," said Harry, flexing his arm. In his eagerness to get Ron upstairs, he had misjudged the pile of laundry he'd grabbed.

"I wonder what happened to him," said Ron, shoving socks into a drawer. "Draco I mean. The last time I saw him, he was cowering with his useless parents in the Great Hall."

"With any luck, they'll be in Azkaban where they belong. Anyway, listen, there's something I want to ask you. What's wrong with George?"

"Well isn't it obvious?" said Hermione as she walked into the room.

"Big ears," said Ron gruffly.

"Oh shut up. Harry, Fred and George were like two peas in a pod. They did everything together. George has probably never felt so alone in his life."

"When we returned from Hogwarts," said Ron, "he went to his room, laid on his bed, and now hardly comes out, except for the bathroom of course. He hasn't even been to the joke shop. Verity's running it at the moment, and dad asked Dean Thomas to lend a hand. Mum is beside herself with worry. Dad tried talking to him but it didn't do any good. It's like a part of George has also died."

Harry could easily relate to this. When Sirius had died at the hands of his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, he, Harry, had thought the world had stopped, that nothing would ever be the same again. No spell or charm could have repaired the hole in his heart. And then there was Dumbledore being blasted off the top of the astronomy tower. Although he had 'arranged' his death with Snape - and Harry now understood why, it didn't made it any less painful.

Oh yes, Harry knew all about grief and the scars it could leave. At least he'd been able to channel his anger towards the destruction of Voldemort, whereas poor George, had no outlet at all.

"I wish I could help him," said Harry quietly. "I know exactly how he feels."

"You're probably the only one who does mate," said Ron grimly.

Hermione seemed to hesitate before saying, "Harry, why don't you try talking to George? I know death is a painful subject, but well, you've had your fair share of it, and perhaps this is one occasion when talking about it will do some good."

Harry bowed his head. The thought of opening his own wounds did not fill him with joy. Since first entering the wizarding world, the Weasleys' had welcomed him with open arms. Indeed, Mrs Weasley had once said that she thought of him as a son. Therefore, if exposing his own pain would somehow help George, then it was a small price to pay.

Harry nodded just as Mrs Weasley shouted up the stairs, "Dinner!"

"What took you so long," asked Kingsley, as he placed a large tureen on the table.

"Oh, nothing," said Hermione airily. "We were speculating what changes the ministry will make. I presume there will be some."

Kingsley grunted as he waved his wand and produced several jugs of pumpkin juice. "That, Hermione, is an understatement. It's been so hectic, that it was two days before I could get to the Muggle Prime Minister to inform him of events. Naturally, he was very relieved. As you can imagine, we've been inundated with owls. As Arthur said earlier, it will take time to heal. Suspicion and mistrust are still rife, and many people refused to believe that Voldemort is dead. Letters are pouring in from all over the country. One woman claimed she'd captured him in a supermarket. Apparently, he was disguised as a jar of peanut butter. She took it home, transfigured it into the statue of a ballerina, and it's now residing in her china cabinet."

For the first time in what seemed like months, everyone broke into laughter. Harry was still wiping the tears from his eyes as he asked, "And the Auror Office?" Although he had not received the requisite number of OWLs' to join the elite group, he was still interested in them.

Kingsley's voice suddenly became serious. "They have been working overtime. There are still many Death Eaters on the run, and I have no doubt they'll try and put up some form of resistance. It will be hard enough to rebuild the Ministry's reputation, without having to contend with rogue elements as well."

Harry felt an uncomfortable lump in his stomach. Indeed, now he came to think about it, why had Mr Weasley drawn his wand? Perhaps he had reacted instinctively, but then, why react at all? Surely he would have been advised of Kingsley and Professor McGonagall's visit, before he'd left the ministry.

Harry dipped his spoon into the soup, lifted it out, looked at the contents dribbling over the side, and then put it down again. "Are you saying that the Death Eaters will regroup and continue with Voldemort's twisted plan?"

"Harry, not everyone is happy that Voldemort is dead. Sad to say, but there are some people who are inherently evil."

"Like Umbridge," said Harry bitterly, glancing at the hand holding the spoon. Even now, the scar on the back of his hand that spelt, 'I must not tell lies', was still faintly visible. "Did you see her dabbing her eyes at Dumbledore's funeral? Evil bitch. After the havoc she reeked at Hogwarts, I can't believe she's still working at the ministry."

"Actually," said Professor McGonagall, a small smile of satisfaction dancing around her lips, "she's not. Earlier today, she had the temerity to suggest that the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, be reinstated. When she was informed, and by the entire Wizengamot I might add, that bias and bigotry would no longer be tolerated, she was so incensed that she resigned."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, whooped for joy. Nothing better could have raised their spirits. Even Mr and Mrs Weasley exchanged 'high fives'. Then, from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Kingsley open his mouth, hesitate, and then close it again. When he did speak, Harry was absolutely sure it was not what Kingsley had intended to say.

"Arthur, I presume you still want to be in charge of the Muggle Artefacts Office?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Mr Weasley enthusiastically, but in the next instant, his tone became uncertain. "I'm not looking for any favours, but I was wondering…" he stopped and looked at Mrs Weasley for support.

"Go on, Arthur, ask him." From her soft encouraging tone, Harry could tell that, whatever the issue was, husband and wife had discussed it before.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat. "Perkins is retiring, and…well, Percy has expressed a wish to take his place."

"Arthur," said Kingsley, a note of exasperation in his voice, "will you please stop treating me like somebody you barely know. Percy has proved invaluable to me over the past few days, but if you want him with you, then while I'm still sitting in the top chair, you can have him."

"Kingsley," said Hermione tentatively, "what do you mean by 'still sitting in the top chair'? I thought your…" she sketched quotation marks in the air, "…'temporary status', was only a technicality."

"Yeah, I thought that too," said Ron in a muffled voice, his mouth crammed with the chicken & ham pie Mrs Weasley had just placed on the table.

"And me," said Harry.

Kingsley let out a deep throaty chuckle. "You lot don't miss a trick, do you?" Harry, Ron, and Hermione, beamed. "Oh well, as it will be announced in The Daily Prophet tomorrow, front page I expect, there's little point in hiding it. After much debate and argument, the Wizengamot have reached a momentous decision. Two out of the last three Ministers of Magic – Cornelius Fudge and Pius Thickness, did not exactly inspire confidence, although to be fair, having been confunded for almost a year, Thickness was not acting of his own accord. Incidentally, he has been cleared of any wrong doing. Regrettably, Rufus Scrimgeour was not in the job long enough to make an impact. Therefore, the Wizengamot has decided that, instead of appointing a new Minister for Magic themselves, a public election will be held. Anyone can nominate, and those of age can vote for whoever they want. There will be two rounds of polling, however, any candidate who receives less than 5000 votes in the first round, will be automatically withdrawn. It is all part of the Ministry's plan to be more transparent and responsible."

Harry and Ron gaped at Kingsley in astonishment, while Mrs Weasley gave her husband a 'why didn't you tell me' sort of look. Hermione however, could hardly contain her excitement as she blurted, "Harry, you should nominate."

Harry did a double take. "What? Me? Minister for Magic? Are you mad?"

"Yeah, go on mate," said Ron, giving Harry a nudge in the ribs. "Just think of all the laws you could change. Better still, think of all the laws you could make." Ron's eyes took on a dreamy look as he began to imagine the future. "The quidditch world cup to be held every two years instead of four, Honeydukes to give out free samples once a month…no wait…once a week, and…"

"Ron, be serious," said Hermione snappishly. "Harry, you can campaign on a platform of law & order and…oh yes, this would be brilliant, you can highlight SPEW. I've still got lots of facts and figures, and there's plenty of…of…" Her voice trailed away. There was no point in continuing. Harry and Ron were roaring with laughter.

"Hermione," said Kingsley in a gentle voice, for it was clear from the way she'd bowed her head, that she was upset, "while I agree that Harry has accumulated more experience than most wizards do in a lifetime, I think even he will concede, that running the Ministry of Magic, is not for the faint of heart. However, there is nothing to stop you from canvassing the candidates to see if one of them will champion your cause. But, before you do anything, I suggest you listen. Professor McGonagall has her own special announcement to make."

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "Over the past 12 months, we, that is to say, the teachers and I, did our best to uphold the standards expected at Hogwarts, but unfortunately, many seventh year students were woefully unprepared to sit their NEWTs'. Therefore, those who wish to do so, may return to school and repeat their final year."

Harry and Ron exchanged astonished looks, but this was nothing compared to Hermione. "Go back to school?" she said in an awe-struck whisper, her eyes glazed and slightly out of focus.

"I thought you'd be pleased," said Professor McGonagall with a knowing smile. "However, you should bear in mind, that irrespective of age, you will still be expected to adhere to the rules. Needless to say that, in preparation for this unique event, Mr Filch, the caretaker, has already revised his list of banned objects. 603 at last count, and most of them, so he tells me, are products known as Weasleys Wizard Wheezes."

"603!" yelled Ron, half impressed, half outraged. "Okay, it might be a backhanded compliment to Fred and George, but Filch is still a twisted git. Look at how he sucked up to Umbridge. He'd have kissed her…"

"Enough," said Professor McGonagall sharply. "Argus Filch has been caretaker at Hogwarts for many years, and like him or not, his dedication to the school is beyond reproach. However, I do take your point. He is getting on in years, so perhaps it is time to engage an assistant for him."

"I thought that's what his mangy cat, Mrs Norris, was for," said Ron.

"I don't think anybody knows what Mrs Norris is for," said Professor McGonagall rather quickly. Then, seeming to regret her frankness, she became business-like again. "You have two weeks to make a decision. Unfortunately, I cannot give you more time, because the school needs to be specially adapted to accommodate the extra students."

"You could always use the Room of Requirement," suggested Harry.

"That room, Mr Potter, is now strictly out of bounds. I know it will be difficult, but should any of you return to Hogwarts, it would be better if you do not mention it to anyone, particularly someone who doesn't know it exists. I'm sure you, of all people, understand why."

Harry slowly nodded his head. The magical room had proved invaluable in the past, especially during the creation of 'Dumbledore's Army'. But it had also been the means by which Draco Malfoy had admitted Death Eaters into the school, which had resulted in Dumbledore's death.

An awkward silence had enveloped the kitchen. Hermione broke it by asking, "Has anyone else accepted? The Parvatti twins? Neville? Lunar?"

"You are the first outside the ministry to know about it," said Professor McGonagall, a note of pride in her voice. "An announcement will be made in The Prophet tomorrow."

Ron leaned closer to Harry and whispered, "I wonder if old Xenophilius Lovegood has repaired his quirky house yet," but Harry wasn't really listening.

Despite his initial shock, the prospect of returning to school and acquiring the NEWTs' he needed to become an Auror, was growing on Harry. It would give him the opportunity to try again. It would also mean another year with…"Hagrid!"

"Professor Hagrid?" said Professor McGonagall perplexedly. "What about him?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the first time we met. Being a giant, naturally the Dursleys' were terrified of him, but I was not. Somehow, I knew that, as big and as menacing as he looks, he would not harm me."

"Speaking of your relatives," said Kingsley, "it's about time they were returned to Privet Drive. I'm sure Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle, will be extremely grateful. From the few reports I managed to read, it seems that the novelty of babysitting these particular muggles, wore off long ago. It was only out of loyalty to you, Harry, that Hestia and Dedalus persisted. I have to return to the ministry tonight, so I'll send an owl to let them know we're coming."

Harry's mouth fell open. Since ensuring the safety of his Aunt and Uncle and cousin, for which his Uncle Vernon, rather than being grateful, had been extremely rude, Harry had never given them a second thought. And why would he? After all, he never expected to see them again. How had the blustering Vernon Dursley – who would rather have said Harry was dead than admit to knowing him, the bony horse-faced Aunt Petunia – who hated the very word magic, let alone anything to do with it, and the pampered and bullying Dudley, coped in the wizarding world?

"Where are they?"

There was a mischievous tone in Kingsley's voice as he answered, "We hid them…in Mad-Eye's house."

There was five seconds of stunned silence, then, as though a small bomb had exploded, the kitchen erupted with screams and howls. Ron thumped the table and managed to splutter, "You're kidding," before falling off his chair. Hermione tried to help him up, but she was so convulsed with laughter, that she fell on top of him. Mr and Mrs Weasley and Kingsley, all had tears streaming down their faces', while Professor McGonagall had a rarely seen attack of the giggles.

Before his death, and being an ex-Auror, Alistair 'Mad-Eye' Moody, so called because of his magical electric-blue eye, had been convinced that Death Eaters were waiting to kidnap him. To this end, he had invented an array of security devices that were so sensitive, that not even a mouse wearing sneakers could get into his house.

His sides aching with laughter, Harry collapsed onto the floor. The idea that his relatives, who hated anything strange or weird, being forced to live in a house where very little was 'normal', was, in Harry's opinion, a fitting punishment for all their years of cruelty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Harry Potter, & The Flume of The Agathos Daimon**

**By Annette Siketa**

Chapter 3 - The Dursleys' Departing – Again

Harry's feet slammed onto solid ground, and with an unsteady lurch, he managed to stop himself from falling. He still did not like disapparating, the feeling that he was being squeezed through a very tight tube, his eyes and ears pressed back into his head. However, as Kingsley had pointed out when they'd left The Borough after breakfast, the sight of two men flying on broomsticks in the muggle world, was likely to attract attention.

"Is this it?" asked Harry, surprised at Mad-Eye's home. He would never have associated the rough and gruff ex-aura, with a quaint whitewashed cottage. Indeed, with its climbing roses and surrounding green fields, had it not been for the strange objects poking through its thatched roof, the cottage could have graced the lid of a biscuit tin.

Harry stared in fascination at the array of unusual objects. Long and short, fat and thin, one vividly purple object attached to the chimney, looked like a cross between a satellite dish and a giant colander.

"External secrecy sensors," said Kingsley, following Harry's gaze. "But don't ask me how they work or what they do, I wouldn't have a clue."

Harry smiled thinly, for he had just noticed something else - the unmistakable hand of Aunt Petunia. Obsessed with cleanliness, the brass knocker gleamed, the grey front steps had been scrubbed almost white, the windows were so clean that the glass was practically invisible, and all the lace curtains hung as straight as a wand. Harry had absolutely no doubt, that the almost sterile exterior, would be more than matched inside.

"I'm not looking forward to this," he admitted. It was not that he was frightened of his relatives, in fact, after everything he'd been through, he doubted he'd ever feel fear again. No, it was just that, after all the years of living with the Dursleys', he knew exactly what to expect.

"Come on, let's get it over with," said Kingsley, but they had only taken a few steps when, without warning, the area of space directly in their path, shimmered and wobbled like heat haze.

Far from heat however, only once before, when he had swum with Dumbledore in the sea, and then stood dripping wet in the freezing cave that had led to RAB's locket, had Harry ever felt so cold. This time, even though the sensation only lasted a few seconds, it was enough to set his teeth chattering. "What…what was that?" he stammered, vigorously rubbing warmth into his arms.

Kingsley, who was rubbing his own extremities, did not immediately reply. Instead, he stood still, listened for several seconds, and then said, "I think we've just walked through some kind of identification barrier. Mad-Eye might have been a bit paranoid, but he was an extremely skilled wizard. I don't hear any sirens or wailing, so I think it's safe to proceed." He gestured to Harry's pocket. "Keep your wand at the ready, just in case."

"What other types of devices did he invent?" asked Harry as they approached the front door.

"Goodness knows," said Kingsley, banging the heavy brass knocker. "The new Head of The Department of Magical Mysteries, Wilburt Roxon, has already made a request to examine the house." He raised the knocker again. "In fact, he asked me to seal the house after everyone has departed." There was a short pause as he banged on the door a third time. "I wonder what's keeping them," he said with a frown, just as the door was violently thrown open.

Harry stood and stared in silence, unable to believe that anyone could have changed so much in such a relatively short period of time. He had last seen Hestia Jones in the Dursley's living room. She had been bright, fresh-faced, and eager. Now however, her jet-black hair was streaked with grey, her pretty face was thin and haggard, and there were large dark circles around her eyes. She looked about 10 years older. She also looked extremely angry, and Harry did not have to wonder as to the cause. Although the words were undistinguishable, from somewhere at the back of the house, Vernon Dursley was shouting at the top of his voice.

"Thank goodness you've arrived," she said, raising her voice to be heard above the din. "It's been chaos since your owl arrived last night. You can sort this one out. Dedalus and I have had enough!"

With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, as Harry followed Hestia down a dim narrow passageway, his Uncle's voice became more discernable. "Dudley, you will do as your told. I am your father and I make the decisions. You are too young to decide what you will do."

Considering Dudley was barely a month older, Harry thought this was a bit rich. The next moment, Aunt Petunia's voice came sailing through the kitchen door. "Duddeykins, you must listen to mummy and daddy. We have always had your best interests at heart, and have always protected you against…well, the nastier things in life."

Harry could not believe his ears. Dudley Dursley had been pampered by his parents for years. If he wanted a new bike – he got one – and then promptly broke it. When he complained that it was too far to walk to the lounge to watch television, a new set had appeared in the kitchen within days. In addition, as his age had increased, so had his weight, until finally, Dudley did what he'd been threatening to do for years - become wider than he was tall. The school nurse had sent a curt note home. She had seen what Aunt Petunia's eyes would not, that for health and safety reasons, not to mention the fact that the school uniform was not made in his size, Dudley had to go on a diet. But even then, Aunt Petunia had not stopped spoiling him, insisting that everyone in the house also join the diet - not that Harry needed it, ensuring that her 'Duddeykins', always received the largest grapefruit quarter.

As Harry had expected, every surface in Mad-Eye's kitchen shone like new, and judging from the strong smell of disinfectant, it had been regularly sanitised as well. Although he had no reason for thinking so, Harry suspected that the entire cottage had never been so scrupulously clean.

Dedalus Diggle, who was sitting on a bar stool, almost toppled backwards. "Minister Shacklebolt and Harry Potter! What an honour!"

"Hello Dedalus," said Harry warmly, as the tiny wizard retrieved his purple top hat, which in his excitement, had fallen off and rolled across the floor.

"Where the ruddy hell have you been?" bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in his temple pulsating angrily. He was a big, beefy man, with piggy little eyes and hardly any neck. He was standing in front of the draining board. The kitchen sink had four silver taps, one of which, was turned upside down. "Have you any idea what time it is?"

"Nice to see you too," said Harry sarcastically, and turned away. He could hardly bear to look at his Uncle. Unlike Hestia and Dedalus, whom Harry thought had shrunk by several inches, Vernon Dursley looked the picture of health.

And so did Aunt Petunia. Although she was wearing the same salmon-pink travelling coat as the last time, it looked uncomfortably tight, and there were definite signs of straining at the seams. Her cheeks were now fat and pink, but the moment Harry turned his gaze on her, all the colour drain from her face.

Harry knew exactly what she was thinking. In the wizarding world he was now of age, and therefore, could perform magic at will. "Remembered have you?" he said curtly, as the memory of being locked in his room with nothing but cold tinned soup to eat, flashed through his mind.

A second later, his mind went blank. Nothing in either the wizarding or muggle world, could have prepared Harry for the sight of Dudley Dursley. The ham like fists and chubby pink cheeks had gone, replaced by a tall, lean, handsome youth. The change was so dramatic, that Harry would never have recognised him, even if they'd been sitting side-by-side on a bus. He was so stunned that all he could say was, "Dudley, um…how are you?"

"Fine," he said sulkily. Harry frowned. For someone who was about to be returned to 'normality', Dudley did not look the least bit happy.

"Never mind about him," said Uncle Vernon testily. "I want to know why you weren't here earlier to take us home."

"Mr Dursley," said Kingsley, "the note I sent last night, only stated that Harry and I would be calling here today. It did not specify a time."

Although Kingsley had spoken calmly, there had been an inflection in his voice as to suggest a warning, and Vernon Dursley seemed to recognise, that here was a man who would not be bullied. "Well…yes. I naturally assumed that it would be first thing this morning." There was dead silence. Nothing stirred or moved. Moreover, as the seconds ticked past and nobody responded, it took all of Harry's resolve not to laugh. He had never seen his Uncle look so uncomfortable. Vernon Dursley cleared his throat. "So, you're here to take us home," he went on in a lighter tone, attempting to break the awkward silence. "Not that we'll be glad to leave, it's just that we're not suited to live with…your kind."

At once, the atmosphere in the kitchen became as thick as treacle. "Our kind?" repeated Kingsley slowly, and Harry saw the hand holding the wand, grip it even tighter. "Mr Dursley, had it not been for the protection 'our kind' gave you, protection that came at an incalculable cost I might add, you and your family would be dead." Aunt Petunia shrieked and ran behind Dudley. Harry was bemused to see that she could no longer hide behind his once bulky frame.

Uncle Vernon made a gurgling noise as though his collar was strangling him. "Ah…yes, well, the sooner we leave, the sooner we can put this awful business behind us. We're all packed and ready to go."

"I'm not," said Dudley forcefully, and stepped away from his mother. When she tried to grab him, her handbag got in the way.

"No Dudders," she wailed, clinging to his arm like a limpet. "You cannot stay here. You must come home with mummy and daddy. You miss your old room don't you? I know, the first thing we'll do is redecorate it. In fact, you can have the other room back." She gave Harry a nasty look. "He won't be needing it again, and I'm sure there must have been some new computer games released while we've been stuck here, so we'll go shopping and buy the latest ones. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Duddeykins?"

Harry was thoroughly sickened. Not only was his Aunt the stupidest woman who ever breathed air, but after 12 months of forced exile, she had to beg her son to go home. Why though? Why did the already spoilt and pampered Dudley, need to be bribed? Harry hoped the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, was only hunger.

"Come on son," said Uncle Vernon, in what he supposed was a jovial voice. "I tell you what, as soon as we return home, I'll take you in hand and start teaching you the business."

Considering the 'business' in question was the manufacture of drills, Harry could not think of anything more boring. But neither it seemed could Dudley, for he straightened his shoulders, broke his mother's vice-like grip, and announced in a firm voice, "I want to stay here with Harry."

Harry's stomach did a somersault. "What? Dudley, you're not magical. Without the use of a wand, its virtually impossible to live in the wizarding world."

"But I've already lived here for 12 months without a wand and nothing has happened."

"Yes, but you've been under wizard protection." Harry desperately groped for something, anything, to bolster his argument. He suddenly remembered an expression that Mrs Figg had once used. "Dudley, if you got into trouble, you wouldn't be able to transfigure as much as a teabag. Muggles cannot live in the wizarding world."

"They can if they're a squib," said Aunt Petunia crisply, a note of satisfaction in her voice, "and Dudley is a squib."

There was a long awkward pause. Harry's mouth fell open. Dudley – a squib? No, it was impossible…or was it? Harry racked his brains to remember the correct definition of a squib. Images from the past began whizzing through his mind. Aunt Petunia standing in the corner in the hut on the rock, her voice shrill as she'd ranted, "Knew? Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was. Oh she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that…that school, and came home every holidays with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was, a freak. But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that. They were proud of having a witch in the family."

Harry then remembered a second, far more pertinent memory. It had been in his second year at Hogwarts, and he'd been sitting in Filch's office awaiting punishment. He had examined the contents of a large glossy purple envelope, which had the words 'Quick Spell – A correspondence course in beginner's magic', written in silver on the front. Filch had later announced that he was a squib, and having no idea what a squib was, he, Harry, had asked Ron to explain. "A squib is someone who was born into a wizarding family, but hasn't got any magic powers. Kinda the opposite of Muggle born wizards."

Harry's brain went into overdrive. If he wanted to avoid what would no doubt prove a disaster, he would have to choose his words very carefully. "Well," he began hesitantly, "he's certainly descended from a wizarding family, but he's sort of twice removed, so I don't think it counts."

"Counts?" said Aunt Petunia shrilly. "Of course it counts. He might not be a full squib, but he's obviously inherited something from your side of the family, otherwise how could he have felt those Dementors two years ago, or almost suffered their kiss…" She suddenly broke off and clamped a hand over her mouth, her face turning a nasty shade of green. All her pleading and cajoling a few moments earlier, was now utterly pointless. By boasting of Dudley's heritage - a hitherto unknown occurrence, she had destroyed her own argument. Aunt Petunia looked quite appalled with herself, and Harry thought she was going to be sick.

"How do you know that?" he asked her, astonished that she should remember this scrap of magical information, when she usually denied its existence.

"Petunia? Dear?" said Uncle Vernon timidly. He was goggling at her as though she'd suddenly produced a wand from her handbag.

She glanced at Uncle Vernon in fearful apology, and then lowered her hand to reveal her horsy teeth. "It's just something I remembered," she said jerkily. "I didn't mean…" She closed her mouth, opened it again, and then snapped it shut.

Uncle Vernon, his voice restored to considerable volume, had no difficulty in speaking. "Bah! This is all nonsense!" His enormous black moustache rippled as he threw his hands in the air. Harry, having never really considered his own family tree, for once, was grateful for his Uncle's intervention . A moment later, he was given cause to regret it. "For one thing," Vernon Dursley continued, "where's he going to live?" His piggy eyes gleamed maliciously at Harry as he added, "Perhaps you can wave your wand and conjure up a house."

Harry looked at his Uncle with a mixture of pity and anger. How did you stop someone from being even more ridiculous than they already were? If he didn't diffuse the situation, there might be more than sparks flying around the kitchen. Before he could act however, Dudley drew in a long deep breath and said, "Harry doesn't need to conjure a house. I can live at Grim Auld Place."

Harry's mouth fell open. Aunt Petunia's fragmented memories were one thing, but Dudley? To the best of Harry's recollection, he had only ever mentioned 12 Grim Auld Place in Dudley's presence, once. The idea of a muggle living in a house teaming with dark magic, not to mention the heads of previous house elves mounted on the walls, or the diabolical exploding mummy in the hallway, or the howling shrieking portrait of Mrs Black, was ludicrous. It did, however, give Harry an idea.

"Um…Dudley, the house is not empty. Somebody lives there."

"Oh, I don't mind sharing," said Dudley brightly. Clearly it had never occurred to him that he might not be welcome. "As you can see, I don't eat much anymore." He spread his arms to emphasise the point. "I spend most of my time working out, so when I'm not exercising, I can learn from them."

Harry felt ill. Something very unpleasant was squirming in his stomach. Even the thought of Dudley being taught by a woman who hated every form of life if it wasn't pure-blood, was too terrible to contemplate. He had to put a stop to this, and now!

"Dudley," he began, unsure of what to say next. Then, to Harry's enormous relief, Uncle Vernon cut across.

"You will not! You are going home and that's an end to it." He marched to the kitchen door with such determination, that his great black moustache flapped like a bird. "Now, come on, we're leaving this mad house once and for all!"

He was about to wrench open the door when Kingsley said coolly, "And how do you propose to do that? We don't use taxis, buses, or trains."

Uncle Vernon turned purple with rage, the vein in his temple throbbing manically. "With those two," he roared, flapping a hand in the direction of Hestia and Dedalus. "They brought us here, they can get us out."

"Mr Dursley," said Kingsley in an unnaturally calm voice, "Hestia and Dedalus are here at the behest of the Ministry, and in particular, the Minister for Magic, which at the moment, just happens to be me, and I have not, as yet, given them permission to leave."

Harry hoped his look of surprise did not give the game away. First thing that morning, so Kingsley had informed everyone when he'd arrived at The Borough, he had resigned as temporary Minister for Magic. This meant that, until the election was held, then technically speaking, nobody was in charge of the Ministry. Harry was willing to bet his firebolt, that the Dursleys weren't aware of the fact.

"Now look here," he growled menacingly, advancing on Kingsley. But that was as far as he got. Dudley now demonstrated the skills he had learnt as a boxer, the only physical activity his former bulk had suited. He nimbly stepped forward and blocked his father's path.

"Dad, I don't care if I have to live in a tent, but I am not going home. What is a drill compared to a wand? Yes, I know I'll never be able to use one, but there's more to the wizarding world than just waving a wand. Let me stay here alone, at least for a few more months, and if things don't work out then…" he dropped his head and mumbled, "…then I'll come home."

Aunt Petunia threw her arms around his neck. "My Dudders," she wailed, very white faced and with tears in her eyes. "What is mummy going to do without you?"

For all his arrogance and pomposity, Uncle Vernon seemed to deflate slightly, as though someone had let out a little bit of air. Nevertheless, as Harry well knew, his Uncle was not about to admit defeat, and sure enough, he squared his shoulders and looked directly at Kingsley. "You will guarantee my son's safety." It was more a demand than a question.

"As much as humanly possible." There was five seconds of dead silence. Then slowly, reluctantly, Uncle Vernon gave a single nod of his head.

"No!" Harry's voice echoed around the kitchen. "Kingsley, you can't, you know that…" but Kingsley held up a hand.

"Leave it, Harry. I know what I'm doing."

"But…"

"Leave it!" Harry had a terrible sense of foreboding, as Kingsley turned to address Hestia and Dedalus. "Where is the car?"

"It's hidden in the garden under a disillusionment charm," said Dedalus. "But I think it needs more tepol."

Hestia rolled her eyes. "He means petrol."

"Oh, yes, of course," said Dedalus squeakily, his top hat wobbling on his head.

"Enough!" Uncle Vernon was breathing so hard, that the hair of his moustache was standing on end. "Just get Petunia and I back to normality and I'll do the rest. I should never have agreed to come here. I am more than capable of protecting my family. Dismentors, Debt Eaters, it's all nonsense."

In spite of Kingsley's admonition, Harry could not restrain himself, and for the first time in his life, he actually felt sympathy for Dudley. "So, that's it is it? You're just going to dump your son and take off? Dumbledore was right when he said that you thought nothing of inflicting appalling damage. There are dangers here you cannot possibly imagine, and believe me, you're damned lucky to be going home in one piece. You haven't been protecting your family, they have." He pointed to Hestia and Dedalus, who both looked shocked at the ferocity of his outburst. "Don't you get it? Its only because of their vigilance and dedication that you're all still alive."

"But I thought this Lord Volleyball was dead."

"He is, and do you know why? Because I killed him!" Harry knew his temper was spiralling out of control, but he didn't care. Every part of him was ready to explode. With the possible exception of screaming until his lungs burst, the only way he could release his pent up anger, was to yell like a madman. "Seven years I've been fighting him. Do you hear me? Seven long years. He murdered my parents! He murdered Bathilda Bagshot, Cedric Diggory, and god only knows how many others, and it was his twisted bitch servant who killed Sirius. Yes, Lord Voldemort is dead, and I killed him."

"Ah ha!" yelled Uncle Vernon in triumph, glaring at Harry with piggy little eyes. "So, like your godfather, you're a murderer. Oh, this explains everything. I always knew there was something wrong with you, boy, and now you've just proved it."

Aunt Petunia screamed as Hestia darted forward to stop Harry from raising his wand. His anger was so profound, that red sparks were flying out of the end. "No Harry," she said breathlessly, "he's just not worth it. I'm sorry, I know he's your Uncle, but I've never met anyone so ignorant in my life."

Uncle Vernon, his face now puce, opened his mouth to respond, but then snapped it shut. Imposing at the best of times, Kingsley had drawn himself up to full height, his wand clutched tightly in his hand.

"Sirius Black was not a murderer, although at this moment, I can well understand the urge to kill. Through no fault of his own, Sirius was imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. He was a good honest man, and what's more, he risked his life to break out of prison in order to protect Harry. Have you ever done anything as noble? No, of course you haven't. Why? Because you're too arrogant, selfish, and narrow minded to see past the end of your nose."

"How dare you!" shrieked Aunt Petunia. "That's my husband you're insulting," but she should have kept her mouth shut, for Kingsley rounded on her.

"And you…call yourself a mother? Why, a Doxy has more feeling than you. How you can stand there and look Harry in the face after the way he was cruelly treated, is beyond belief. You have no idea what this lad has done, the sacrifices he's made, the pain he has endured. Had it not been for Harry, the Muggle world would have been swamped with Dementors. To the wizarding world he is a hero, but to you, he's nothing but a hindrance. You should be ashamed of yourself, both of you." He paused, drew in a long deep breath, and said in a dignified tone, "Hestia, Dedalus, please remove the disillusionment charm and bring the car round the front. Use Locomotors if necessary."

Hestia looked uncertainly at Harry. "It's okay," he whispered, appreciating her concern. "I'm fine now."

"Dudley," said Kingsley, as Hestia and Dedalus exited the kitchen, "you will return to Privet Drive." He held up a hand to stifle Dudley's pending protest. "If, as you assert, you want to stay in the wizarding world without the protection of your parents…"

"Such as it is," said Harry under his breath.

"…then arrangements must be made. In the interim, it would be in your best interests to return home. At the very least, you will need some new clothes. And Dudley, don't bother bringing a computer. I assure you, it won't work here. When matters are settled, I will contact you by owl post."

"Oh yes?" said Uncle Vernon sceptically. "Well, I'm not sure I like the sound of that. It seems to me, that as innocent victims of your recent troubles, Dudley should be afforded every consideration, and that we, that is to say, Petunia and I, awarded some form of compensation." He could not keep the greed out of his voice as he added, "I believe your main form of currency, is gold."

Slowly and deliberately, Kingsley began to flex his wand. "Let me see," he said in a thoughtful voice, "the Sahara or the North Pole?"

Dudley moved like lightening. He yanked the door open just as a loud CRACK sounded at the front of the house. Hestia and Dedalus had brought the car. "Mum – dad – move!" Dudley followed his parents out, then at the last moment, stuck his head around the door. "Mr Shacklebolt," he began tentatively, "I…erm…I hope this won't affect…"

Kingsley held up a hand. "Just…go. I will be in touch." Seconds later, there was a resounding CRACK, and the car and its five occupants, were gone.

The house fell eerily quiet. It seemed to emit a forlorn emptiness, even though the ghostly echoes of its former occupants lingered in the kitchen. Harry sat down heavily and rubbed his aching head. "They're gone." He knew his words were superfluous, and yet by saying them aloud, it somehow added impetus to the fact, that he would never see his relatives again. And then he remembered that it was not the end. "Kingsley, why did you agree to let Dudley return?"

"Think about it, Harry. Your Aunt and Uncle are too self-absorbed to reveal where they've been, but Dudley is another matter. Being young and impressionable, to him, the wizarding world is, to use a muggle expression, the best thing since sliced bread."

"True, but as he's been staying in this house under the protection of Hestia and Dedalus, his knowledge is very limited." Harry slowly looked up, a look of dawning comprehension in his eyes. "You're planning something."

Kingsley grinned. "Let's just say that by the time I've finished with him, Dudley will never think of, let alone speak of, the wizarding world again."

Harry smiled as he asked, "You weren't really going to send Uncle Vernon to the Sahara or the North Pole, were you?"

For an answer, Kingsley gave his wand a tiny flick, and two glasses, each containing a generous amount of amber liquid, which Harry recognised as Ogden's Firewater, appeared in the air.

"Harry, I don't usually drink until after work, but today is most definitely an exception."

Harry burst out laughing and raised his glass in salute. He could not have agreed more.


End file.
